


Under a Thumb

by frostywonder



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus, Auror Harry, Department of Mysteries, M/M, Unspeakable Draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:38:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1212946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostywonder/pseuds/frostywonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco is given an assignment that, unfortunately, involves Potter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under a Thumb

**Author's Note:**

> This one may seem like it has angst and infidelity at first, but that is a tad misleading. Another one I started but have yet to finish. We'll see what happens to it.

Sometimes Draco is ignored. Nothing he does can gain Potter's extended attention. He's rewarded with a quick smile when he tries to be playful or an angry shout when he's so fed up with being overlooked that he resorts to breaking things. Then Potter turns away again, ignores him, and he's left to stare out the window with an overwhelming sense of loneliness.  
  
Sometimes Draco is the one that does the ignoring. Potter coos sweet nothings at him but he gives Potter his back, pretends not to notice the adoring words. If Potter gets too pushy, too affectionate, he'll move to another room or go outside. He prefers these times; he's the one in control. If Potter doesn't catch the hint, if Potter follows, he can retaliate violently and not feel guilty about it. He doesn't always want company either.  
  
Sometimes Potter brings people to 12 Grimmauld Place and they stare at Draco, some of them friendly or sympathetic but others disgusted. They all ask, where did Potter find him? Why does Potter let him stay? Does Potter enjoy having him around? They ask as though he isn’t standing right there, as though he can't hear them. Potter never answers to his satisfaction, just stumbles over excuses. Now, when the others visit, he slinks to the back rooms and waits until they leave before he ventures out again.  
  
Sometimes they curl up together on the oversized bed and sleep till midmorning. Potter always wakes first and runs his hand over Draco's hair until they're both blinking in what little dim light makes it past the thick curtains. The sleepy, contented smile Potter wears for Draco during these moments is the most charming one he possesses. They'll stay that way for a bit, Potter moving his hand, petting, and Draco humming with contentment. Eventually, one of them has to get up.  
  
Sometimes Potter leaves the bathroom door open when he showers. He doesn't care if Draco sits on the toilet and watches him. He just grins and makes a smartass comment about Draco being a voyeur. He's the one with no shame, Draco thinks. He's the one that closes his eyes and touches himself, the one who puts on a show for Draco to watch and then smirks about it afterwards, giving Draco a wink.  
  
Sometimes Draco gives Potter gifts to show his affection. They're unimpressive items of course; he can't produce much better in his current state. But he wants Potter to understand how much he values their relationship, as strange as they happen to be, and gifts are the only way he knows how to show it. Potter accepts them all, usually with a small smile but occasionally with a grimace for the more grotesque pieces Draco finds. Always, Draco's gifts end up tossed in the waste bin a moment later, no matter how much effort he puts into acquiring them, no matter if they received smile or frown from their recipient.  
  
Sometimes, and these times are the worst, Potter comes home smelling like someone else.  
  


* * *

 

Draco blinks slowly in response to his superior's words, not fully understanding them the first time they ricochet through his emptied mind. It's best, he's learned, to occlude oneself when in the presence of one's boss.  
  
"I'm sorry?" he says, careful to not raise his voice beyond a whisper. His lips barely need to move. There are walls in the Ministry that have ears which can hear the chirp of a sparrow from a mile away, or so he's been told. One must always be quiet. Lesson Three. "You want me to what?"  
  
"We need to know more," his superior responds. She won't repeat herself. Nothing is ever repeated. The Ministry walls. Ears. Lesson Two.  
  
"More?" Draco asks. He doesn't add, _About what?_ but she knows anyway.  
  
"Just more," is her ever-vague answer.  
  
"If I'm caught?"  
  
"You won't be."  
  
 _If I'm caught?_ he doesn't repeat. Ministry Walls. Ears. Lesson Two.  
  
She tilts her chin. It's threatening.  
  
 _Don't get caught,_ she doesn't say.  
  
"But if?" he asks. _He's going to catch me._  
  
She's angry now, her face pinching toward its center. The room shifts in response, a door appearing on the wall behind her.  
  
"Lesson One," she hisses. When she twists on the toes of her left foot to exit—he'd always thought she'd turn right, not left—the bottom edge of her cloak billows out against a nonexistent breeze and smacks against his knee like a whip.  
  
She's charmed it to do so, he assumes. The sting is a mild annoyance.  
  
He lifts his eyes to the constellations twinkling on the ceiling of his room, his office that has no desk, no papers, no nothing. Just stars and storms on the ever moving walls.  
  
"More," he murmurs, eyes focusing on the Ursa Major—always the easiest to find when one's mind is empty.  
  
 _Lesson One: The Department of Mysteries denies the existence of_ everything _, even you._  
  


* * *

Draco knows a lot about Potter, from school, from the war—that's why they had chosen him. He'd feel honored by this but he knows he's just a tool to them. He'd feel insulted by that but he knows everything is a tool to them. They don't discriminate in their lack of affection. If he can survive long enough under their thumbs, he may even be one of them someday. He shudders to think of what he'll have to become in order to join _that_ crowd.  
  
That is, if he ever makes it past this point. He doesn't think he will. Potter isn't the sharpest-beaked owl, but he certainly holds a flair for discovering obscure secrets—and Draco's secret isn't even _that_ obscure to begin with.  
  
"Ugh," he groans, settling his battered body on a trash can. This isn't where he wants to be, bloodied and starved in a dirty alley, thrown out like the garbage that surrounds him. He's half of mind to toss the assignment and just quit—there have to be other jobs out there. But someone's going to do it, why not him? Potter hadn't responded well to his offer of friendship in the past, certainly wouldn't do so now, so he has to go about gaining Potter's trust in a different way. Unfortunately, that way involved him living on the streets without food. Potter had always been weak against charity cases.  
  
 _"Entreat Harry Potter's trust and observe him. Weekly updates."  
  
Why?_ Draco wonders for the umpteenth time. What did they want to know about Potter than wasn't already in _The Prophet_? Did the man even take a shit without someone reporting its size and shape? He snorts at the thought.  
  
There must be something that they wanted. He'd known better than to ask.  
  
Draco sighs.  
  
The _thump, thump, thump_ of Potter's boots against concrete in the distance catch Draco's attention; he's waited in this alley enough times—for one month, to be precise—to know Potter's distinctive stride by now. He perks slightly, wincing as he does, and a moment later Potter passes by the alleyway. Easing off the trash can, Draco cautiously tiptoes to where he can peer around the brick wall. Potter is already in the distance, has made it to the end of the sidewalk. Draco can barely see in the shadowy evening light but he recognizes the flicker of movement that Potter makes—the man is checking for muggles or reporters. Both, maybe.  
  
Then he steps off the curb onto the street beyond and disappears before he reaches the other sidewalk. Anything non-magical won't have noticed. 12 Grimmauld Place is under a new fidelus.  
  
Draco sighs again and limps from the alley, ignoring the ache in his stomach. Fuck, but he's _so hungry_ now. A month of scrounging moldy leftovers from bins has left his skin sagging over his ribs. He hasn't ventured close to Potter, only kept to the shadows. Potter probably hasn't even noticed him yet, but at least it's given him time to get into his role as the abandoned victim. At least he looks like one now, no need for glamors.  
  
He's only just started moving to the end of the sidewalk, to where Potter can see him, but really, he's so careful that it's likely no one sees him. As per routine, he staggers to a tipped bin off one of the crummy lots that surrounds Potter's secret home and digs through it in hopes of finding something fresh to eat.  
  
Maybe Potter has noticed him. Maybe Potter is glancing out a window at the very moment and watching him—maybe not for the first time.  
  
He doubts it.  
  
Well, another couple weeks of this evening garbage thing and then he'll try hunkering against the cold morning air on a stoop Potter passes when he leaves for work. If Potter isn't noticing him now, surely the man will then.  
  


* * *

Potter's savior-complex is more severe than Draco'd assumed. It's a little frightening, to be honest, how desperate the man is to help every pitiful creature he sees. He doesn't even wait for Draco's stoop-plan, just appears out of the nothingness that is 12 Grimmauld Place a few evenings later when Draco's digging through the usual tipped bin. His appearance is so unexpected that he catches Draco by surprise, startles Draco into panicking and running away before contact is made, disappearing through the overgrown bushes across the street.  
  
It's a good thing, though, more realistic. If he's too open to Potter's initial advances it'll only make Potter suspicious. He has a role to play and play it he will. It's his assignment. Under their thumb. Lessons one through ten. Sub-lessons included. _Entreat Harry Potter's trust and observe him. Weekly updates._  
  
He should be unrecognizable, of course, not just from the grime and starvation. It's the magic; he's good at hiding it. Potter shouldn't be able to tell him apart from any other he imitates, though he'd be careful to make sure he's the only one in this area. He'd always been brilliant at magic like this. Perhaps _that_ was the reason they had chosen him.  
  
Draco is careful not to return to the bin for three days, careful not to even venture within sight of Potter. He just sits in the alley and listens to Potter pass by every morning and evening, headed off to the Ministry to do Auror work. Why couldn't they observe him there? Surely it had to be easier?  
  
 _They do,_ he thinks. _They know everything about him except what happens behind the charm._  
  
On the fourth day he tiptoes out again, making his way more cautiously to the bin. It's not tipped anymore, the mess cleaned around it. He wonders if this is Potter's doing, if it bothers Potter to live in such a crummy, city neighborhood.  
  
Potter'd been waiting for him. Draco realizes too late and spins around to find Potter standing at the edge of what he assumes is the _fidelus_ , frozen and staring at him. He stares back, glares really, whole body tense and shaking. Fight or flight, his instincts tell him—impressive how they've honed so beautifully on the streets. He'd gotten lazy in the years since the Dark Lord.  
  
Potter moves slowly but Draco darts further away anyway, only turning back to watch in case he needs to _fight_. He knows he won't, but it's the instinct that tells him to do it. Potter merely kneels in place and sets something on the sidewalk beside his foot.  
  
It's fucking food on a goddamn plate.  
  
Real food.  
  
On a real plate.  
  
Fuck Potter.  
  
The smell of it is so strong, the sight of it so enticing, that Draco nearly faints, nearly becomes a whimpering, begging mess.  
  
But that's Draco. That's not the hardened street urchin, and as soon as Potter starts to rise again, Draco turns tail and runs, making another break for the bushes. This time though, he hides there and watches. He's sure Potter can't see him, but the man stares at where he'd disappeared before sighing and turning back into the charm, which wavers slightly as he disappears. He leaves the plate of food behind.  
  
Draco waits for three hours before he tiptoes back to the plate. It's a meat pie of some type.  
  
And it's mercifully delicious.  
  


* * *

They do this dance for two and a half weeks, Draco fleeing and then coming back for the plate that Potter leaves on the sidewalk. Two and a half weeks, but almost two months since he last checked in with his superior. They haven't given him a time limit. They know he'll report his findings like a good little puppet once he has something to report. They know it'll take him a while to gain Potter's trust. They know it'll be easier for him to get in character and stay in character for a bit before he can think about balancing two lives.  
  
They always know everything. Lesson seven.  
  
Everything, except what happens behind Potter's charm.  
  
However, his mother will be wondering, worried. He'd told her his newest assignment would keep him away for five months (his estimate at the time). That was all he could tell her, but she'd wanted more. She hates where he works.  
  
"Stay away from the Mysteries!" she'd shrilled at him when the job offer had come in. "You don't want to venture there!"  
  
"Of course, Mother," he'd said, and accepted the offer anyway.  
  
He should have listened to her.  
  
Now he has a crazy dance with Potter. He keeps the dance going until his instincts tell him it's okay to move on—he wouldn't dare try to do so without this subconscious approval. So the dance changes and he starts to move toward Potter when the man appears. Not too close—never too close—but towards rather than away, and a new dance starts. He doesn't flee anymore, not even when Potter starts trying to talk to him.  
  
"It's okay," Potter says softly, eyes gentle and sympathetic. "I just want to help you."  
  
Draco never answers at first, just stares from a good distance away until Potter sighs and sets the plate on the sidewalk like usual. His not fleeing gives Potter confidence and the man only backs a step or two away once the plate is down. Draco just keeps staring, _glaring_ , until Potter sighs again and returns to the safety of his charm.  
  
The new dance will take a little longer; he can't just start trusting Potter. It'll be too suspicious.  
  
Maybe five months isn't enough time.  
  


* * *

"It's okay, it's okay," Potter says, kneeling a little over teen feet away from where Draco's digging through the food on the plate like a starved monster. "I'm not going to hurt you."  
  
"What do you want?" Draco growls roughly at him, voice weak from lack of use.  
  
"It's okay," Potter repeats and finally settles onto the sidewalk. He doesn't stare directly at Draco, just in the general direction of. He probably thinks it makes him less threatening. He murmurs, "I can help you."  
  
"I don't want your help," Draco hisses and takes another too-large bite of the meat pie, nearly choking on it.  
  


* * *

"Where's the rest of it?" Draco grumbles, searching the plate for the other half of the meat pie once he's devoured the bit Potter'd given him. He's been spoiled on this food that Potter tries to coax him with. Potter thinks it'll earn the trust of his instincts.  
  
Fuck if Potter isn't right about that.  
  
"Looking for more?" Potter chuckles softly. He lifts another plate, one that Draco hasn't noticed until now, and sets it only a foot away from where he sits on the curb. "Come on then."  
  
"You fucking wanker," Draco snarls. "What're you trying to pull?"  
  
Potter scoots further away, giving the plate more room.  
  
"Asshole," Draco mumbles, but takes a cautious step toward the exposed plate. He watches Potter carefully as he does, waiting for the trick. His instincts don't know if there is a trick or not, but when Potter shifts slightly, just as he reaches the plate, he turns and flees anyway.  
  


* * *

"Why are you doing this?" Draco demands, scraping the last of the meat pie off the plate bare two feet from Potter.  
  
"I'm trying to help you," Potter says, looking earnest. "Why won't you let me help you?"  
  
"Go to hell," Draco growls. He's really gotten into this role. He feels more comfortable in it now than he ever has before. How many weeks has it been? It's getting cold, too cold. At least Potter has fattened him up so he's something to battle the elements with. The bushes make for nice cover, too, he's learned. Honestly though, he hopes he can start trusting Potter soon.  
  
"It's going to start snowing this week," Potter murmurs, looking at the sky.  
  
"What? You've got to be joking!" Draco spits around his mouthful, irritated. _The shit I do for this job._  
  
Potter's attention drifts from the sky to Draco. "You can come inside, you know. I'm not going to hurt you."  
  
"So you've said."  
  
"You'll freeze out here. Come on then." Potter slowly extends a hand, careful to not look directly at Draco.  
  
Draco jumps back, is on the tips of his toes to flee again, but then he catches the look on Potter's face. The man is so disheartened by his continued lack of trust, so eager to help him.  
  
In the distance thunder rumbles.  
  
It's going to snow this week.  
  
"Fine," Draco hisses and takes a step toward Potter's outstretched hand. "Fine."  
  


* * *

"I've made up a bed for you," Potter says as Draco escapes down a hallway, panicking in the unknown that is Grimmauld Place. His superior will be so pleased that he's inside the _fidelus_.  
  
"I'll sleep wherever I goddamn well please!" Draco growls over his shoulder as he runs. He disappears down the stairs to the darkened kitchen. "Stay away from me, _pervert!_ "  
  
Upstairs, Potter sighs.  
  


* * *

Winter isn't so bad with a warm room to watch it from.  
  
He's careful, so very careful, to relay his observations, pitiful though they are. What they possibly wanted to know about Potter's boring life was beyond him. Potter never notices, though, not even when he sends a message to his mother to let her know the assignment will take longer than he originally thought.  
  
Potter trusts him.  
  
He starts to feel guilty.  
  


* * *

Sometimes they act like kids and play together. It always stupid games, ones that he'd refused to join when he'd first entered Grimmauld Place, but then Potter had gotten that sad look on his face again and Draco had begrudgingly accepted the fate. Potter finds him so funny now, even when he's being every bit the spoiled brat that he was at Hogwarts. Amazing, he thinks, how a different beginning, a different appearance, could so drastically change Potter's opinion of him.  
  
Sometimes Potter watches Draco bathe. It bothers him; he's not an exhibitionist like Potter. He tries to ignore the stare and clean himself with his head held high, but every now and then he blushes and glares at Potter. These times, Potter will snort and say, "What do you have to be shy about?"  
  
Sometimes Draco lies in front of the fire, snoozing lightly in the heat and Potter will then lie beside him to join in on the napping. Draco always wakes first, as soon as the fire dies, and he'll tiptoe out and leave Potter to shiver in the encroaching cold without him. If he gets hungry, he'll bother Potter till the man awakes and then demand that Potter make something for them to share.  
  
Sometimes Draco spends all day in Potter's bed. The mattress is too soft for him but he's come to love the way Potter smells. He'll press his face to Potter's pillow and just breathe its manly scent for hours while he waits for Potter to come home. Sleeping all day only seems to make him more tired.  
  
Sometimes Potter gets angry about something he's done and stomps through the house, shouting. Draco hides in one of the rooms for hours after Potter does this, not because he's afraid—Potter would never hurt him, would never attack him—but because he knows it makes Potter feel bad. When Potter tracks him down, he plays spooky and refuses to talk to Potter. He doesn't always let Potter coax him out of his hiding places.  
  
Sometimes Potter gets so caught up in his work that he forgets Draco entirely, doesn't notice Draco speaking to him from the doorway or if Draco brushes against him in the hallway. Not ignored, no, just forgotten, as if Draco doesn't exist at all. As if Draco never existed. Draco has found he prefers being ignored.  
  
Sometimes Draco hisses, "Don't try to talk to me when you've got some bitch's smell all over you!" and Potter just frowns and walks away.  
  


* * *

Draco knows something is wrong when Potter returns home but doesn't call out cheerfully to him. He sits up on the lounge, looking at the doorway, wondering why Potter is coming up the stairs with his boots on. Potter never wears his boots upstairs.  
  
A moment later Potter appears in the doorway, expression a deceptively stoic mask. Draco can feel the waves of fury rolling off of him.  
  
"What's the matter?" Draco asks quietly; inside, he's panicking. He knows what this is about. He can sense it.  
  
Sure enough, Potter raises his wand and points it directly at Draco.  
  
"Who are you?" Potter demands lowly, voice rumbling with anger. Draco freezes and doesn't answer. In a quick stride, Potter is across the room and his wand is directly between Draco's eyes. He's no longer trying to remain calm; his face twists in rage. "I said who the fuck are you?!"  
  
"Potter," Draco murmurs. "Wait…"  
  
"Stop!" Potter shouts, jabbing his wand closer so that Draco has to jump off the couch or be struck. "The game's up! I know you're an animagus, so stop pretending and show me who you are!"  
  
"Fuck," Draco says, but Potter only hears, "Mrow."  
  
"You get one more chance," Potter snarls darkly, "and then I'm hitting you with every curse I know."  
  
"Merlin!" Draco yelps, jumping back further. Potter raises his arm, opens his mouth to cast, and Draco hastily transforms back into his human self, crying, "Wait! Wait—please wait!"  
  
Potter's mouth drops open at the sight of him—the _real_ him—and then his face hardens to a different kind of anger.  
  
" _You_ ," he spits. "Fucking— _you!_ "  
  
Draco collapses back against the wall behind him, swallowing nervously. This is it. He's been caught. He always knew he would be. So did they. They expected it. They sent him on this suicide assignment.  
  
Under their thumb.  
  
Remember Lesson One.  
  
The Department of Mysteries denies the existence of everything, even _you_.


End file.
